On the Cross: A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau

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ON THE CROSS

A Romance of the Passion Play at Oberammergau

BY Wilhelmine von Hillern AND Mary J. Safford

DREXEL BIDDLE, PUBLISHER PHILADELPHIA

Copyright, 1902

ANTHONY J. DREXEL BIDDLE.

PRESS OF DREXEL BIDDLE, PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.

HERR JOHANNES DIEMER,

THE RENOWNED DELIVERER OF THE PROLOGUE IN THE PASSION PLAYS OF THE LAST DECADE, A TRUE SON OF AMMERGAU, IN WHOSE UNASSUMING PERSON DWELLS THE CALM, DEEP SOUL OF THE ARTIST, THE LOYAL SYMPATHIZING FRIEND, IN WHOSE PEACEFUL HOME I FOUND THE QUIET AND THE MOOD I NEEDED TO COMPLETE THIS WORK, IT IS NOW DEDICATED, WITH GRATEFUL ESTEEM, BY

THE AUTHORESS. CHAPTER I.

A Phantom.

CHAPTER II.

Old Ammergau.

CHAPTER III.

Young Ammergau.

CHAPTER IV.

Expelled from the Play.

CHAPTER V.

Modern Pilgrims.

CHAPTER VI.

The Evening Before the Play.

CHAPTER VII.

The Passion Play.

CHAPTER VIII.

Freyer.

CHAPTER IX.

Signs and Wonders.

CHAPTER X.

In the Early Morning.

CHAPTER XI.

Mary and Magdalene.

CHAPTER XII.

Bridal Torches.

CHAPTER XIII.

Banished from Eden.

CHAPTER XIV.

Pieta.

CHAPTER XV.

The Crowing of the Cock.

CHAPTER XVI.

Prisoned.

CHAPTER XVII.

Flying from the Cross.

CHAPTER XVIII.

The Marriage.

CHAPTER XIX.

At the Child's Bedside.

CHAPTER XX.

Conflicts.

CHAPTER XXI.

Unaccountable.

CHAPTER XXII.

Falling Stars.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Noli me Tangere.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Attempts to Rescue.

CHAPTER XXV.

Day is Dawning.

CHAPTER XXVI.

The Last Support.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Between Poverty and Disgrace.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Parting.

CHAPTER XXIX.

In the Deserted House.

CHAPTER XXX.

The "Wiesherrle."

CHAPTER XXXI.

The Return Home.

CHAPTER XXXII.

To the Village.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Received Again.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

At Daisenberger's Grave.

CHAPTER XXXV.

The Watchword.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

Memories.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

The Measure is Full.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

On the Way to the Cross.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Stations of Sorrow.

CHAPTER XL.

Near the Goal.

CONCLUSION.

From Illusion to Truth.

INTRODUCTION.

It was in the Garden of Gethsemane that the risen Son of God showed Himself, as a simple gardener, to the penitent sinner. The miracle has become a pious tradition. It happened long, long ago, and no eye has ever beheld Him since. Even when the risen Lord walked among the men and women of His own day, only those saw Him who wished to do so.

But those who wish to see Him, see Him now; and those who wish to seek Him, find Him now.

The Garden of Gethsemane has disappeared—the hot sun of the East has withered it. All things are subject to change. The surface of the earth alters and where the olive tree once grew green and the cedar stretched its leafy roof above the head of the Redeemer and the Penitent, there is nothing now save dead, withered leafage.

But the Garden blooms once more in a cool, shady valley among the German mountains. Modern Gethsemane bears the name of Oberammergau. As the sun pursues its course from East to West, so the salvation which came from the East has made its way across the earth to the West. There, in the veins of young and vigorous nations, still flow the living streams that water the seeds of faith on which the miracle is nourished, and the stunted mountain pine which has sprung from the hard rocks of the Ettal Mountain is transformed to a palm tree, the poor habitant of the little mountain village to a God. It is change, and yet constancy amid the change.

The world and its history also change in the passage of the centuries. The event before which the human race sank prostrate, as the guards once did when the risen Christ burst the gates of the tomb, gradually passed into partial oblivion. The thunder with which the veil of the temple was rent in twain died away in the misty distance; heaven closed forever behind the ascended Lord, the stars pursued their old courses in undisturbed regularity; revelations were silent. Men rubbed their eyes as though waking from a dream and began to discuss what portion was truth and what illusion. The strife lasted for centuries. One tradition overthrew another, one creed crowded out another. With sword in hand and the trumpet of the Judgment Day the Ecclesia Militans established the dogma, enforced unity in faith. But peace did not last long under the rule of the church. The Reformation again divided the Christian world, the Thirty Years War, the most terrible religious conflict the earth has ever witnessed began, and in the fury of the battle the combatants forgot the cause of the warfare. Amid the streams of blood, the clouds of smoke rising from burning cities and villages, the ruins of shattered altars, the cross, the holy emblem for which the battle raged, vanished, and when it was raised again, it was still but an emblem of warfare, no longer a symbol of peace.

There is a single spot of earth where, untouched by the tumult of the world, sheltered behind the lofty, inhospitable wall of a high mountain, the idea of Christianity has been preserved in all its simplicity and purity—Oberammergau. As God once suffered the Saviour of the World to be born in a manger, among poor shepherds, He seems to have extended His protecting hand over this secluded nook and reserved the poor mountaineers to repeat the miracle. Concealed behind the steep Ettal mountain was a monastery where, from ancient times, the beautiful arts had been sedulously fostered.

One of the monks was deeply grieved because, in the outside world, iconoclasm was rudely shaking the old forms and, in blind fear, even rejecting religious art as "Romish." As no holy image would be tolerated; the Saviour and His Saints must disappear entirely from the eyes of men. Then, in his distress, the inspiration came that a sacred drama, performed by living beings, could produce a more powerful effect than word or symbol. So it was determined in the monastery that one should be enacted.

The young people in the neighborhood, who had long been schooled by the influence of the learned monks to appreciate beauty, were soon trained to act legends and biblical poems. With increasing skill they gained more and more confidence, till at last their holy zeal led them to show mankind the Redeemer Himself, the Master of the world, in His own bodily form, saying to erring humanity; "Lo, thus He was and thus He will be forever."

And while in the churches paintings and relics were torn from the walls and crucifixes destroyed, the first Passion play was performed, A. D. 1634, under the open sky in the churchyard of Oberammergau—for this spot, on account of its solemn associations, was deemed the fitting place for the holy work. The disgraced image of love, defiled by blood and flames, once more rose in its pure beauty! Living, breathing! The wounds inflicted more than a thousand years before again opened, fresh drops of blood trickled from the brow torn by its diadem of thorns, again the "Continue ye in My love" fell from the pallid lips of the Lamb of God, and what Puritanism had destroyed in its dead form was born anew in a living one. But, amid the confusion and roar of battle, the furious yells of hate, no one heard the gentle voice in the distant nook beyond the mountains.

The message of peace died away, the Crucified One shed His blood unseen.

Years passed, the misery of the people constantly increased, lands were ravaged, the ranks of the combatants thinned.

At last the warriors began to be paralyzed, the raging storm subsided and pallid fear stared blankly at the foes who had at last gained their senses—the plague, that terrible Egyptian Sphinx, lured by the odor of corruption emanating from the long war, stole over the earth, and those at whom she gazed with the black fiery eyes of her torrid zone, sank beneath it like the scorched grass when the simoom sweeps over the desert.

Silence fell, the silence of the grave, for wherever this spectre stalks, death follows.

Fear reconciled enemies and made them forget their rancor in union against the common foe, the cruel, invincible plague. They gazed around them for some helping hand, and once more turned to that over which they had so long quarrelled. Then amid the deathlike stillness of the barren fields, the empty houses, the denuded churches, and the desolated land, they at last heard the little bell behind the Ettal mountain, which every decade summoned the Christian world to the Passion Play, for this was the vow taken by the Ammergau peasants to avert the plague and the divine wrath. Again the ever patient Saviour extended His arms, crying: "Come unto Me, all ye who are weary and heavy laden!" And they did come. They threw themselves at His feet, the wearied, hunted earthlings, stained with dust and blood, and He comforted and refreshed them, while they again recognized Him and learned to understand the meaning of His sacrifice.

Those who thus saw Him and received the revelation announced it to others, who flocked thither from far and near till the little church-yard of Oberammergau became too narrow, and could no longer contain the throngs; the open fields became a sacred theatre to receive the pilgrims, who longed to behold the Redeemer's face.

And, strangely enough, all who took part in the sacred play, seemed consecrated, the plague passed them by, Ammergau alone was spared.

So the pious seed grew slowly, often with periods when it stood still, but the watchful eye can follow it in history.